


wolfsong

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex, Wolf Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa’s hand is a burning brand on his back when he wakes, swimming up through layers of sleep at the feel of her. Her eyes are on his when he blinks awake, bright blue eyes like robin’s eggs, eyes that look at him with feeling he never would have thought possible in the life he had before. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t question. She’s there for him and she’s his and he rolls over on to her before he’s even truly awake, prizing her mouth open with a thumb to kiss her hard and deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wolfsong

**Author's Note:**

> Futurefic, only vague spoilers, R+L=J. Written for the prompt: **[Jon/Sansa, Jon has been having a lot of wolf dreams recently and it leads him to behave rather wolfish/alpha male-y in bed.](http://workswithwords.livejournal.com/259929.html?thread=2541145#t2541145)**.

The dreams are getting worse.

He’s running in them, always running, the forest floor a knotted blur beneath his feet. He hears the crackle of leaves, the whistle of the wind in his ears, the sounds of his own body – harsh breath and a heavy beating heart and the pound of his tread on the loamy ground, the vibration of the howl in his throat. Tastes the blood on his muzzle when he licks it clean.

Jon wakes panting, fists clenched in sleeping furs, his body a sheen of sweat, Sansa sleeping peacefully beside him. Whatever goes on in his dreams, it’s never enough to wake her, and though the most part of him is glad of it, another part wants to wake her anyway, to bury his mouth in the slick, sweet taste of her before he fucks her with none of the care that such a lady deserves. When he dreams like this, he can’t see her without needing her, without wanting to push her to her hands and knees and take her like the animal he is at night, running under the stars, howling with the bloodlust of the hunt.

It’s getting harder to resist.

He’s begun fighting sleep, allowing himself only fitful, shallow stretches not suited for dreams. It’s almost as it was on the Wall, fighting the Wildlings, his body sinking deeper only to jerk awake, panicked, knowing he mustn’t. Shadows grow under his eyes, his movements become slow and blunted. Sansa looks at him with concern, draws her thumb over those shadows and regards him with eyes he could drown in, and still he wants to open his mouth over hers and consume her like an animal, even as he wants to lean into her sweetness and drink every bit of kindness and affection she has to give him. It’s enough to make a man go mad.

The afternoon is high when he finds he can’t stay awake, the last days having taken their toll. He barely keeps his eyes open as he stumbles to their chambers, his relief at finding them deserted enough to bring him to his knees. He strips his clothes away, leaves them in heaps across the floor as he falls bare across the bed, having only enough presence of mind to twitch the furs to his waist before falling into sleep. He doesn’t dream but the other dreams are there in his memory, living under his skin.

Sansa’s hand is a burning brand on his back when he wakes, swimming up through layers of sleep at the feel of her. Her eyes are on his when he blinks awake, bright blue eyes like robin’s eggs, eyes that look at him with feeling he never would have thought possible in the life he had before. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t question. She’s there for him and she’s his and he rolls over on to her before he’s even truly awake, prizing her mouth open with a thumb to kiss her hard and deep.

It’s nothing close to what a lady like Sansa deserves. The heavy fabric of her gown presses creases into his skin, the laces and knots rubbing him raw as he weighs her down, as he moves his hips against her in a way bordering on obscene, even with her clothing between them. Impatient, he rolls her to her stomach, jerks at the lacing of the bodice with rough fingers, reveling in the feel of her trembling quiescently beneath him even as he curses himself for his lack of control. Catching himself, he manages to pull the gown from her shoulders without hurting her, no scrapes on her skin from his bitten fingernails. He tugs it from beneath her, works her shift up from her hips and over her head, her smallclothes down her thighs and knees and calves. When he rolls her to her back, she wears only her woolen hose tied with ribbons to match her eyes and she watches him with need on her face, the restless shift of her thighs revealing her to him, and his blood is singing again, the thought of gentleness seeming a far away thing.

She’s so slight, even as tall as she is. It only takes one arm looped beneath her waist to pull her hips up to his where he’s kneeling between her thighs. Only one arm to hold her so he can plunge into her, her back arching over his forearm, her shoulders falling back to the bed, both arms thrown bonelessly above her head to lie on the anemone of her hair about her flushed, beautiful face. The wool of her hose scratches at his sides, around his back where she hooks her ankles and locks him to her. He sets his other hand on her abdomen, feels the tremor in her stomach before he slides it to where their bodies come together, holds the heel of his hand to her with firm pressure, its stillness a sharp contrast to the push of his hips. She’s panting, making short, whimpering sounds. The arch of her spine sharpens when her first release hits her, and she pushes her hands flat against the bedstead above her, her lips stretching in a soundless cry. A coarse triumph wells up in Jon’s chest, one he should be ashamed of and no doubt will be later. He’s been with her so many times, fucked her and loved her and made a life with her, but never like this, nothing anything close to this.

He stays within her when he drops forward, his arm still beneath her, his other hand finding her wrists. They’re narrow enough that he can hold both in one hand. He pins them above her head, holds them too tightly, opens her lips with his tongue and lets the wolf take him.

She wears a gown with long sleeves that loop over her middle fingers the next day, but still he sees the marks, mottled red and purple around her wrists, just peeking past the line of fabric. He waits until they’re alone in the room, waits until he can catch her by one of those wrists – delicately, so carefully – and pull her into the spread of his knees where he sits. He slides the loop from her finger like a ring, peels back the edge of her sleeve to show the shackle marked beneath her skin in blood. Her eyes are even when he looks up at her, his pain and remorse surely showing plain on his face. Her other hand is soft at his neck, her thumb set in the well of his ear.

“I bruised you,” he says quietly. His thumb brushes the bruising and her other hand tightens, she moves her thumb in mimicry over the lobe of his ear, and even in his state of regret he can’t help but shiver.

“I enjoyed you doing it,” she says. Overcome, he drops his forehead to rest against the soft swell of her stomach. The part of him roused by wolf dreams would surrender to the fire those words have burning in his belly, would fist a hand in her hair and bare her throat to him, bend her over the writing desk before him and take her on top of the ledgers and accounts. It would weigh her down to the stone floor and fuck her until she cried out his name. But he’s no wolf, only a man. He swears to himself that he’ll act it, but she’s shifting her feet apart, bringing her skirts to her waist so that he catches the scent of her, heady and sharp, as if he’s a wolf in waking now as well as in dreams, and he knows it’s only one more vow he’ll break.


End file.
